


Too Famous To Live Long

by shinobi93



Category: Henry IV - Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, The Hollow Crown (2012)
Genre: M/M, Poins' POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:02:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinobi93/pseuds/shinobi93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people burn brightly; others flicker in the shadows. Ned Poins was content to be in the latter group.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Famous To Live Long

**Author's Note:**

> So, I tried writing Henry IV fic. This is what happened.
> 
> Thanks to alichay for sharing in the despairing sadness. I apologise for writing this.
> 
> I also apologise for any strange uses of language that result from trying to balance Shakespearean characters in an early 15th century setting with my own writing style.

Convincing Hal to play the trick was simple. All it took was a good argument, an amount of flattery and a shining glint in his eye that promised the prince it would be exciting. Poins didn’t have to put that on: the thrill of outwitting the dull thieves would be exhilarating, him and Hal against the world. Regardless of what he’d say later when trying to reassure the prince, he knew how to manipulate Hal, just not in the same way as Falstaff. Definitely not. The huge man, so full of life, made his presence felt everywhere and so gained the reputation for corrupting the prince because almost nobody saw the hand of anyone else in that task. Not the slight hand of Ned Poins, steering the prince with casual touches and witty words.

He watched as Hal walked down the stairs and through the tavern, pausing to talk and laugh with the people he passed. The people here loved their prince, his jests and his drinking, even if the rest of London wasn’t quite in agreement.

The Boar’s Head was quieter when Hal wasn’t there, although he could never tell if that was a trick of his mind or not. The prince could command the room, creating hush with a gesture and ruckus in a word or two. He had a power that Poins could barely comprehend, an affinity for saying the right thing when he wanted to, and angering his father just as easily. Poins was aware his own name was spoken with disdain by the other princes and the king’s advisors, when asked how the Prince of Wales was accompanied. The word probably never graced the king’s lips. He was a nobody to them.

Not to Hal. He had a value, of sorts, he knew: trickster, jester, friend.

Under the cloak, the next day, shivering slightly against the chill in the air, he felt Hal beside him unable to keep still, waiting impatiently in anticipation of Falstaff’s arrival and their trick. Covering that tall, princely frame with buckram and pretending to be a common thief. Not pretending: metamorphosing. The truth of his mirth was obvious from that laugh, the one Poins had schemed and planned and joked all in the hope of creating. Hal didn’t act, he became.

The old fool, beloved by many but not so beloved by Poins, fell flat on his arse. Cloaks slipping from their heads, they laughed, unrestrained by anything. Hands gripping onto each other to keep from falling too. If, like many times before, they leant a little too close, then a bit closer, stumbling over that boundary between friendship and something else...well, then, the woods would keep their secret. Even a prince can hide sometimes.

-

In the tavern, Hal had a captive audience. Poins loitered in the background, the winks and subtle smirks directed to him, but otherwise unimportant in a sea of faces, at least to the unobservant eye. Sweet Ned, indispensable Ned, hiding in the shadows next to the immediate glare of Hal’s light.

 

He waited around for Hal, talking with those who knew him chiefly as one of the lot who drank with Falstaff and the prince and little else. Their trick couldn’t go any further until Falstaff and the others turned up, but Hal had disappeared too, in that way he was wont to do: the world of Eastcheap buzzed and distracted him, stealing his attention again and again from each new pursuit. He was a small dog, like the one that had got under Poins’ feet as a boy whilst his sister threw scraps for it, forever spotting something that exhilarated and amused him. 

(The dog had grown up, become sober and obedient, and eventually was run over by a cart. His sister, too old really for the show of emotion, had wept all night.)

Eventually, Hal appeared, drenched in sweat and wine, a huge grin on his face as he excitedly recounted his exploits: how he was now the king of courtesy to a group of lowly lads he’d found. Loyal subjects were easy to find in the tavern. Poins stared at his glistening skin and wondered if it would taste as steeped in sack as it looked. He’d never find out. A new jest, a call of ‘Francis!’ (‘thou are perfect’, Hal said) and a frenzied ‘anon anon sir!’, took up their time until Falstaff appeared, taking up the empty space with his size and his lies.

Then, the act really was on. He wondered how good old Jack Falstaff, defender of revelry and sack, had never realised the truth. The truth that Poins himself was bitterly aware of. One day, Hal’s fame would surpass itself. One day, he would become king. King Harry the Fifth, commanding a greater court than that of The Boar’s Head tavern and its patrons. Fate was trying to drag its prince away from his riotous youth, but they’d give a fight before they lost him.

Hal muttered loudly in his ear, laughing at the expense of their friend and his ridiculous exaggerations. They alone knew what actually happened. Standing close together, living on the memories of the trick and its aftermath, living in the moment and mocking the world. A strange kind of shelter. The wine was drying now, leaving trailing marks down Hal’s neck that were especially noticeable when he threw his head back in laughter. Poins’ eyes kept catching them, but it didn’t matter: the prince made people stare anyway, as he was the sun.

Soon Hal was playing himself, playing Henry, playing with seriousness. Up on the table, doing an impression of his father that was sending the whole tavern into uproar, whilst Poins watched and smirked. How His Majesty wouldn’t appreciate being mocked by his son like this, all for a cup of sack and a merry time. Still, it wasn’t the worst Hal had done. His infamy overflowed the words they could use to describe it.

-

Later, Poins thought back on that scene and wondered if he’d guessed how it would end. He’d known it wouldn’t last forever, that Hal’s infamous reputation was ever-ready to spill into true fame. Shrewsbury had been a reminder that they, the low company, had borrowed the prince and their time was running out. Still, he’d been back in London soon enough, seeking out his companion for another jest, a final trick that left a sour note of truth as they watched Falstaff insult them and reality catch up with them. Time for Hal to transform into a king.

Whilst the others of their old company were banished and humiliated, with Falstaff’s foolish assumptions proving his downfall, Poins slipped back into the shadows. He had hoped that King Henry the Fifth had enough of a glimmer of lasting memories to leave him be, not question why his name was not on the list of those rounded up and expelled. 

When news came from France, Poins wasn’t surprised. Hal could never stay one person for too long.


End file.
